This time, this war, he was ready. Victory had followed victory, and he could total the number of worlds taken from the Centauri. It was a most pleasing figure. Gorash 7, Ragesh 3, Frallus 9.... And now Centauri Prime itself.
He was an old man now, and he could retire after this. He would have done his part for the future of his race. They would remember him, maybe even build a statue to him in G'Khamazad. He would like that.
"There's a message for you, Warleader," said his aide, and he looked up. "It's from the Kha'Ri."
"Come to congratulate us, eh?" he asked, smiling — but it was a false smile and false good humour. He had been delayed enough already in the course of this war. Without the unnecessary hesitations and hold-ups he could have taken Centauri Prime months ago. He would not let them deny him this chance again. He knew full well he would not get another one.
"Put them through," he continued. "Here."
"Warleader.... wouldn't you rather.... take it in private?" G'Sten frowned. The aide was new, brought in to replace his former assistant, G'Lorn. He had requested a chance to captain his own ship, and G'Sten had had to agree. He could not deny G'Lorn this chance for glory, a chance that would never come again.
"Anything they wish to say to me, they may say to my soldiers," he replied. The aide nodded, and began patching through the signal. G'Lorn would have known better than to ask that question. He had understood his Warleader well.
"Maybe I'm getting old," he muttered irritably to himself. There was no 'maybe' about it. He was old. He remembered when he had been in the Resistance, with old M'Sela. He had taunted the old man about going off to bed and leaving war to the younger men. He was now six years older than M'Sela had been when he had died, fighting six Imperial Guards at Na'Mirammar. Five of them had gone into death with him.
The viewscreen came on to reveal the face of H'Klo, one of the rising stars in the Kha'Ri. He was young, arrogant, and had actually served in the army, acting with distinction in the previous war. H'Klo had been decorated after Shi, he seemed to remember.
"What is your status, Warleader?" he asked.
"We will be at Centauri Prime by just after midday tomorrow," he replied. "Our probes are picking up details of their defences as we speak."
"Can you defeat them?"
"Yes," he replied simply. "It will in all likelihood be harder than we had anticipated. I think all available ships have been pulled from other postings to defend their homeworld. We outnumber them, though. I have confidence we will triumph."
"The people are expecting an easy victory," H'Klo warned.
"Then the people are fools!" G'Sten snapped back. "It would have been an easy victory six months ago. But I believe there has been a change in leadership among the Centauri. The positioning of their defences indicates that Marrago has regained influence and power. He is there."
"You are sure?"
"We have fought each other for over ten years, Councillor. I am sure."
"How does that change things?"
"Marrago has a habit of skilful escapes. This time however he has nowhere to escape to. I will defeat him."
"I have every confidence in you, Warleader. And.... for what it is worth, had I been able to, I would have ensured you were able to attack Centauri Prime six months ago. I assure you, Warleader, such bureaucratic delays will not happen again."
"I am glad to hear that," he replied. "But I assure you, Councillor. The war will end tomorrow."
"The entire people of Narn have faith in you, Warleader. H'Mari be with you."
G'Sten nodded, smiling slightly at H'Klo's choice of prophet. H'Mari had been a warrior in his day, several hundred years before G'Quan. Many soldiers had once adopted his worship, but it had fallen out of favour with the Occupation. It was good to see a resurgence in belief.
Or perhaps it was a bad omen.
Either way it spoke of the future, and the future he had always wanted for his people was but a day away.
There was something about a pub. Something warm and comforting, a place where someone could walk inside, leave behind all the cares and problems of life, and sit and be at peace, in company or not as the mood took them.
Whoever had written that particular homage had obviously never been inside the Pit Trap, but Dexter Smith, having examined all the other pubs in the area, had decided that it was the best place he had found. For one thing, the door wasn't boarded up and there were no 'Condemned' notices fixed to the wall, which was always a good sign.
He walked inside and was immediately struck by just how dark it was. Empty, too. There were only three other customers there and they were all seated alone. One of them was reading a newspaper from several months ago, while another was huddled shivering next to the heater.
The barman looked up, obviously surprised. "Uh.... my taxes are all paid up," he said. "And I'm a personal friend of Mr. Trace and Mr. Allan, so if you're after any.... trouble, then...."
Smith paused. "Is that the regional variant of 'We don't like strangers round 'ese parts'? I'm just here for a drink."
The barman sighed with relief. "Ah, well then. You're very welcome, sir. I was just.... er.... You can't be too careful in these troubled times."
"Troubled times?" he said, approaching the bar and taking a seat. "I thought things were going well."
"Oh, maybe for those that live up in the better sectors, maybe, but not much changes down here in three-o-one. So, what can I get you, stranger? Oh, where are my manners? Name's Bo."
"Dexter. Um.... what lager do you do? I don't see anything I recognise, but then it has been a while."
"Ah, we do the Pit Bull. A local drink, brewed not far away."
"Really? A bottle of that, then."
"Right you are. Where are you from, then? You don't look like you belong in three-o-one, no offence meant."
Smith took the bottle and sipped it slowly. As Bo had said, you couldn't be too careful, least of all with strange drinks. To his surprise, it wasn't too bad. "Ah, I've been away for the last couple of years. Business of a sort. I recently.... left my old job and decided to come back here."
"You came to three-o-one? That's a pretty unusual choice. Not that I mind, mind." He chuckled mirthlessly. "You know, you look a little familiar. Have I seen you before somewhere? Ah, probably have. Be forgetting my own head next."
"I used to live here, in three-o-one. When I was a child. Tell me, is the Emperor Bibulos still open? It used to be around here somewhere. A Centauri theme pub. The landlord was a really old guy, grey hair."
"The Emperor? You have been away a long while. It was torn down in the Pit Riots of.... of.... ah when was it? The year after Orion fell, the same year my cat died.... Ah, well. You know when it was. The folks here were a little.... unhappy that winter, and a lot of blame went on the aliens. The Emperor was a natural target, I guess, so they tore the place down, pretty much. Security restored order, in the end. They waited a bit, but then we're lucky they got here at all, is my way of looking at it. Fair few people up top like who didn't really care about us here in three-o-one."
Smith fell silent, looking at his drink. He'd never known that. Even when he heard about the Pit Riots, it had never sunk in. He had been serving on the Preacher for a couple of years by that point, before the ship was destroyed at Orion. He'd been stuck in limbo afterwards, like so many Earthforce personnel. He had spent that winter in the barracks at Dome Seven, and news of the Pit Riots had gone straight past him. None of it had connected at all.